Prussian Nights
by Taxie
Summary: (Chapter 2 update.) May 1945. In the Reichstag, Russia meets Prussia and "introduces" him to the Red Army; Prussia would normally refuse (pain? ha, he's so old he invented the term), but his weak spot is in the shape of his fleeing little brother. Russia knows how to shoot between the plates of Prussia's armor. CONTAINS SERIOUSLY NON-CONSENSUAL ACTIVITY.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: A few things about this before you begin. 1) This story is non-con and Nazism throughout, so please don't read if these things offend you. 2) This story WILL contain Prussia, but currently does not, since if you give Russia a couple of Nazi prisoners to play with, he will not give them up without a few thousand words first. There is still sexual content in this part, though, and Prussia will show up in the second part.

There is no gore in this story, but it is NON-CONSENSUAL and contains physical, emotional, and mental abuse. Read no further if these themes upset you. Thank you.

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Russia always chose the pretty Aryan ones.

In all honesty, he didn't entirely disagree with the Fascists on the fact that they produced some fine-looking individuals. It was also very clever of Germany to announce that the apparent masters of the world sported features very commonly found in Germany, and, in fact, were Germany's _actual features_.

Masterful, really. Russia admired a lot about Germany, to be honest. Upon rolling his massive might across Germany's borders, he was struck with amazement at how smooth and plentiful the roads were. Even out in the middle of the fields, so well-maintained! (Of course, Germany was a small country with a womanly winter, whereas Russia was enormous and had The General to contend with.)

Not that Russia could complain about The General. While General Winter was unforgiving even to allies, he was certain death upon a foe. France had learned this the hard way. So had Germany.

That was the problem with the far west of Europe, Russia thought, carefully perusing through the lines and lines of captured Wehrmacht soldiers for his current diversion. In some ways they were quite clever, but in others so desperately stupid. Nobody could fight General Winter. One could only come to an uncomfortable stalemate and wait it out entrenched in what warmth you could fortify yourself with. You cannot defeat him.

The captured soldiers were standing in correct lines of four just outside of the village that was currently being run over and exploited for 'resources.' The Red Army always kept the captured soldiers within hearing distance of the town. The shots, the screams, the pitch, the smell of smoke and charred flesh, the desperate and garbled German wafting over the fields to torture the soldier's ears…

It was always interesting to watch how the captured Fascists reacted. Some had blank faces. Others would close their eyes and cover their ears. Some wept. Any who attempted to step out of line were beaten mercilessly with gun butts. There was one unfortunate soul wailing about a half-mile back down the line to the steady _thwump thwump thwump_ of wooden rifle butt beating skin and cracking bone. This kept his comrades in check.

Russia may have once felt badly for them (oh, he knew what it was like to suffer), but after enduring the mortal pain of millions of his own being beaten, tortured, raped, burned, crucified, captured, shot, or stuck in an open holding pen to be purposefully starved to death, he wasn't in the mood for mercy.

Hadn't been in a while, in fact. Hadn't been since rolling Germany's army up like a carpet and kicking it all the way back to Berlin. He couldn't wait to nail it to the wall and call it home.

And thus he was here evaluating a line of captured enemy. Of course, he could have gone and helped himself to the entertainment currently being held in the village, but he was clearly getting old. Basic rape and pillage had lost some of its charm over the past few thousand years. His tastes had refined slightly.

So, he let his humans have their three 'free days' (after that the Army got stricter about conduct lest the entire actual point of the conquest was forgotten in the frenzy), and spent his own time with his own diversions.

In this, it was important to select two fine examples of the so-called master race that were standing as close together as possible. Men of all nations tended to congregate with their comrades in arms, particularly when in a stressful, helpless situation. Choosing two random soldiers ran a higher chance of Russia just having to kill them both and then come back and start over; wasting time was irritating.

Russia paused to look up and down the line of defeated Fascists, his thumbs hooking idly into his belt.

There. There they were.

Two young men who couldn't have been older than 20 stood next to each other, faces pale in the sun. Both had marvelous blond hair; the taller one had a slightly more gold hue, while the shorter one was more whiteish. Blue eyes of a nearly identical ice shade, pale skin that appeared untouched - this must have been their first skirmish. They were leaning _slightly_ toward each other, clearly acquainted, if not already friends made fast through the toil of war.

Perfect.

Russia _had_ noticed that the average age of captured soldiers was starting to get both older and younger at the same time… clearly Germany was running out of soldiers that were of ideal age.

Well, if there was one problem that Russia _didn't_ have, it was lack of men. His lip ticked up, and he beckoned to the nearest Red Army soldier that was guarding the line.

The soldier looked irritated, understandably, since he was being kept out of the village festivities. (He'd be out and about tomorrow; as far as Russia was concerned, patience was a virtue.) He saluted Russia, though, recognizing him as an officer of higher rank.

"Comrade," Russia said quietly, his deep, warm, quiet tones never failing to make his people swoon, as it was everything they not-so-secretly longed for, "fetch me the two blond-haired fascists standing next to each other." He nodded at the correct line.

The solder saluted again and walked into the column of Fascists, barking out orders at the pair. They obviously didn't speak Russian, but after a few repeated phrases the two stumbled out of the line and stood before Russia, looking bewildered and frightened. Russia waited while their eyes looked at Russia's medals and the colored markings on his shoulder boards marking him as somebody of rank. Russia could see them swallow: smell their fear. The two met eyes briefly, clearly wondering what they had done to be singled out; however, they said nothing, obviously afraid of being beaten.

How pleasing. "Bind their hands behind their backs," Russia instructed his soldier in his warm tone. He smiled at the two young Fascist soldiers but his expression was anything but warm toward _them_.

The soldier saluted again and left the scene for a moment, returning with rope. Roughly grabbing the Fascists' hands, the soldier tied quick, efficient, tight knots and Russia waited, inhaling the sharpened scent of fear in the air; not only from the two directly in front of him, but _also_ from the line of Fascists aware of what was happening, even if their eyes faced straight ahead.

When the soldier was done with the Fascists' hands, he stepped briskly to the side with the leftover rope and waited for orders.

"Back to your station, comrade; leave me the rope," Russia said, still not taking his eyes from the current prize. The soldier handed the rope over, saluted, and obeyed.

Russia hummed and picked up the end of the rope, leaning forward to the taller, gold-blond soldier (Russia decided to name him Syrok), and looped it around the back of Syrok's neck. Syrok's pretty blue eyes widened in fear and his shoulders instinctively hunched up, but a flash of Russia's ice-purple gaze prevented him from flinching away. Russia tied the loop just a _little_ too tight - not a hangman's noose, though, he didn't _actually_ want him to die at this point - before unraveling a length of rope and casually cutting it with his fighting knife. The other end of it went around the second, white-blond boy's neck (after some deliberation, Russia decided on Pomedorchik for him), effectively tying the pair together by the throat and giving Russia a convenient length to hook his hand around.

Thus with both humans bound and leashed, Russia tugged at the rope and led them into the forest, leaving the line of rattled Fascist prisoners behind.

To the credit of the two soldiers, they didn't start begging or sobbing right away as some of their predecessors did. There was an occasional hitching intake of air indicating that one of them was crying - it was Syrok - but at least it was quiet enough for Russia to be able to enjoy the birdsong of the forest.

They walked for at least a mile - Russia making careful to go slow so that Syrok and Pomedorchik wouldn't trip over a tree root and fall, accidentally hanging each other - before getting to a reasonable clearing.

Once there, Russia turned and calmly severed the rope holding Syrok and Pomedorchik together: he left it tied around their necks, but they were no longer bound to each other. Russia turned around and faced the pair; both soldiers shrank into themselves. Russia knew he could be intimidating.

Good.

" _Mercy, mercy, please_ ," Syrok whispered. Even though he was the taller and bigger of the two, he was clearly the more frightened.

Yes, Russia understood German perfectly fine. However, he'd learned that this entire process was more fun if the soldiers didn't think he did.

And, ha, mercy. Was there mercy when the millions of Soviet men died in open fields, starving and shitting themselves to death due to dysentery while well-fed Fascists looked on? The murdered women, the children? The burned villages and fouled fields?

None. None at all. In fact, if Russia had been willing to let on that he spoke German, he may have asked them how many women they'd raped on their way into Russia and how much they'd bragged about it. Russia smiled coldly and reached forward, taking Syrok by the rope around his neck and shoving him roughly into a tree. Pinning him there with his bulk, he gave Pomedorchik a meaningful look and pressed the barrel of his revolver into Syrok's head.

The meaning was unmistakable. _Try to run and your friend is dead_. This proved more often than not successful… even if both soldiers were convinced they would die at the hands of the Soviets, the bond of battle usually prevented one from forsaking the other to a bullet. It had only happened once.

It apparently wasn't going to happen this time. Pomedorchik swallowed hard, but showed no sign of moving. Russia smiled and put his revolver back on his belt, lifting up one of Syrok's legs and… removing one of his boots and socks. Then the other. Then he expertly undid Syrok's belt and trousers to shove them down, along with the regulation underwear, leaving him entirely naked on his lower half.

Syrok was breathing _much_ faster at this point, his white legs trembling. Here, Russia hitched up the top part of Syrok's battle kit, folding it upward, and then rebelted it into place so that everything from Syrok's ribcage down was exposed.

" _Oh God,_ " Syrok was whispering. " _Oh God, oh God help me, the savage, he's going to…_ "

Really, humans could be so unimaginative. Once Russia got to this part with any pair of soldiers both were clearly terrified of anal rape; however, this would have been stupid on Russia's part as it would make both soldiers unable to walk and thus make shooting them necessary. Not that Russia was overly concerned with the life expectancy of Germany's soldiers as a rule, but dying too quickly after this would defeat part of the point.

No, the point was living with it. For however long you survived.

Holding up his revolver to Syrok's head once more, Russia beckoned to Pomedorchik, who came reluctantly over, his face as white as the moon. Russia repeated Syrok's treatment on Pomedorchik, leaving both of them identically stripped.

Once this was accomplished, Russia reached forward to both of them and turned them so they were facing each other. He pushed them into each other; their chests were touching. Both soldiers stayed obediently still, vulnerable and terrified, though they did shift slightly out of embarrassment to try and keep their genitals from touching.

That modesty wasn't going to last long. Russia picked up the rope he'd brought along and carefully threaded it around Syrok and then Pomedorchik's forearms, binding them to each other in order to keep them pressed together. Calmly, he walked around the pair and did the same to the other side.

Thus with the pair appropriately trussed, Russia hummed and nodded. The bound pair of soldiers visibly trembled as Russia removed his leather belt… however, he took no more clothing off, even keeping his greatcoat buttoned. Instead, Russia carefully removed the weaponry from his belt (keeping the revolver in one hand as a threat), and doubled the leather over.

A moment later he was circling behind Pomedorchik. He raised the belt.

The resounding _crack_ as the leather belt sliced across Pomedorchik's rear end was as loud as gunfire, and the surprised and pained cry that Pomedorchik let loose was almost so.

Russia smiled.

He took his time in hiding the soldier, allowing his arm to swing lazily like a pendulum, watching as red welts started to make themselves known against the soldier's helpless, white rear end. There was no sense in rushing, after all. There was such pleasure in reducing the so-called men of the master race into a whimpering, trembling, crying, _pleading_ bunch of well-whipped little boys that Russia doubted he'd ever tire of it.

As normal, Pomedorchik tried to take his punishment with stoicism after the initial surprise faded, but once the belting took him past a certain threshold it was impossible. His feet shifted; he started to shake; his breathing became heavy.

The march of licks went on, unstoppable.

Pomedorchik's head arched up, his face scrunched in pain before he buried his head shamelessly in the crook of Syrok's shoulder and started to cry, quietly at first. Then louder. Then sobbing. Then his feet started to involuntarily lift in a parody of marching, only this one in pain and shame. Russia aimed the belt a bit lower to pay some attention to Pomedorchik's delicious pale-white thighs.

Here, Pomedorchik broke and slumped weakly against Syrok, crying fitfully, covered in sweat and unresisting, simply moaning in despair at the total hiding.

A few seconds later, the smell of urine filled the air as the cur lost control of his bladder. The sobbing became louder as Syrok pressed his cheek against Pomedorchik's in an attempt to give the other comfort, but looking utterly terrified as it was obvious he was next.

Finally, the belt went slack and Russia looked down at his handiwork. Pomedorchik's rear end was no longer soft and white, but an angry, welted red, brutalized much like Russia's lands had been by Fascist shelling.

Russia caught Syrok's petrified blue gaze and smiled, General Winter's ice of vengeance in his eyes.

Unsurprisingly, Syrok also wet himself. Poor boy. Some of the others Russia had selected were at least able to control their bladders; those tended to be slightly older men who had seen considerable bloodshed, though. These two apparently were barely off their mother's teat.

Oh, well. Not Russia's problem. Once Syrok had finished defiling himself, Russia casually looped around behind him and _whack_ went the belt against the fattest part of Syrok's rump.

Syrok's body jumped and he squealed. A red welt popped into existence, angry.

Just like Russia. Very angry.

The punishment continued in the same vein as Pomedorchik's had: a slow and deliberate march toward blinding, humiliating pain. The pair were now hugging each other desperately to maintain balance, but it was clearly more difficult since both of them were being thoroughly whipped. Obviously, they didn't care much about their genitals touching any longer, now that they'd already pissed all over each other.

Soon, Syrok was doing the same pain-dance that Pomedorchik had, but he was slightly more vocal than the other: his sobs were occasionally punctuated with _Oh, God_ and _it hurts_ and when he slumped into his trembling partner, having totally given in, he did so with a defeated, whimpered _Mother_ …

At the last utterance, Russia hummed and laid two more quick licks to Syrok's upper thighs, causing Syrok to shriek, and then approached again, the belt lowered. Both boys - pah, these were no soldiers - had buried their heads in the other's shoulder as if it could hide them.

"You won't see your mother again," Russia intoned quietly in his own language, knowing the others would not understand. Or, at least, it would be highly unlikely. Given how many of his own will never see _their_ mothers again, Russia wasn't in the mood for pity.

Dropping his belt, Russia picked up his knife again and carefully cut through the ropes binding the pair to each other. They separated woozily, faces red and streaked with wet, lower bodies damp with their mutual accidents. Russia grabbed Pomedorchik by the arm, and looked at Syrok.

He pointed to the ground. "Sit," he ordered in Russian. If nothing else, if these boys wanted to have a chance at survival, they were going to have to learn Russian commands. Syrok looked at him for a confused moment, trembling, and Russia pointed to the ground again. Syrok started to slowly lower himself on the ground, squatting and sitting as gingerly as he could on his punished ass with his hands still bound behind his back.

Russia gave him a curt nod. He sat on the ground, tugging Pomedorchik with him, and then throwing the boy over his lap easily with his strength, resting a gloved black hand against the raised welts on Pomedorchik's ass. The other one rested on the boy's bound hands, pushing them slightly up his back.

Russia smiled down at Pomedorchik as the other's body started to tremble. "I think I'd like to hear about how loyal you are," Russia commented, rubbing his hand thoughtfully over Pomedorchik's welts. "'Heil Gitler,' is it?" No, wait. "Ah, I'm sorry, _heil Hitler_."

Syrok was staring at him with huge blue eyes in a wet, red face, clearly not knowing what Russia was talking about - but, obviously recognizing the salute to Hitler.

This was the part where Russia usually had to give in and speak a little bit of German, otherwise the instructions could be difficult to get across. " _Say 'Heil Hitler.'_ "

He was looking down at Pomedorchik, who had jerked his head up at the sound of German. " _Heil Hitler,_ " Pomedorchik breathed, obviously very confused, bless him.

Russia's hand came down on Pomedorchik's ass with a vicious _crack_ as soon as the sentence was out of his mouth. Pomedorchik's body _jerked_ , his legs flying up and a cry escaping his throat at the renewed pain. Syrok gasped quietly.

Russia smiled. " _Again_ ," he instructed in German once more, hand still on Pomedorchik's ass.

Russia really had nothing but respect for overall German intelligence. It never took any of them long to figure out the second part of the game. Pomedorchik sobbed out the rest of his broken exhale before taking a breath that sounded like ripping paper in his throat. " _H-heil Hitler,_ " he moaned pathetically.

 _Crack_!

Pomedorchik's legs kicked out again, and he sobbed, saying nothing. Russia _grunted_ in displeasure and gave one of Pomedorchik's welts a vicious pinch.

" _Heil Hitler_!" Pomedorchik yelped desperately, his legs starting to kick. Russia's hand came down and punished once more, and Pomedorchik's back arched, sweat starting to roll down his spine.

This always lead to an interesting occurrence: the more and more Russia's target lost control, the faster and faster they would desperately invoke their leader's name in hopes of getting the punishment over with faster, or just out of pain and fear. This always resulted in a pleasing session where Russia would spank the boy very quickly and thoroughly until he broke and was too busy crying and sobbing to form syllables.

At this point, inevitably, the boy's ass would be an excellent, bright shade of red, just like the flag of the Soviet Union. Of course, Russia thought, the Fascist flag was red as well, but the main difference between the Fascist flag and the Soviet flag was that the Fascist flag had white on it.

Neither Russia's flag nor Pomedorchik's ass had _any_ white on it when Russia was done, so Russia liked his comparison better. When Russia was finished, he took off his leather glove and rested his bare hand against Pomedorchik's punished ass; the skin was pleasingly hot, like touching warm pavement with bare feet.

Pomedorchik was as limp as a rag over Russia's lap at this point, and Russia had to give him a few moments to quit sobbing at the top of his lungs. Once he had quieted somewhat, Russia prodded him on the shoulder. "Sit," he ordered, the same one he had given Syrok.

It took a moment, but Pomedorchik managed to crawl pathetically off of Russia's lap, his white-blond hair sticking to the sides of his face with sweat and tears. After a wobbling moment, the dear boy tried to sit down on his hip; Russia tugged him so that he was sitting more properly on his ass, triggering another round of tears from the pain.

Syrok, meanwhile, looked like he was going to pass out. Predictably, he started to plead nonsense again. " _N-no, n-no, no, please, I… I don't… I don't… I don't want Hitler, I don't…"_ He burst into tears. "No Hitler," he tried in Russian. "Please, no Hitler."

Well. Apparently Russia had a little linguist on his hands. That would certainly help the boy out in prison, but he was going to have to learn how to take a beating a little bit better. Russia gave him a bit of a flat look, and motioned him over with a finger. "Come here," he instructed. Really, they both should be grateful. The future guards at the camps were not going to be so patient with teaching Russian.

Syrok made a pained, broken noise in his throat before shakily crawling over. Russia gently guided him over his lap for the session, and fondly patted the top of his gold-blond head as Syrok started to sob even before being touched.

" _Heil Hitler,_ " Russia prompted, sliding his glove back on and resting his hand atop Syrok's welted ass.

" _H-heil Hitler,_ " Syrok whispered shakily, and Russia snorted, slapping his ass _hard_ , five times. If Russia's grip hadn't been so strong on Syrok's body, he probably would have leapt straight off Russia's lap.

"Louder," Russia ordered sternly.

" _I don't understand_ ," Syrok wept. " _I d-don't understand_."

Russia sighed. Really, he hated giving away the fact that he knew much German at all, but this was just going to be annoying otherwise. " _Louder_ ," he ordered in German. He was very well aware Syrok probably hadn't gone about saying it in a whisper _before_.

" _Heil Hitler_!" Syrok managed, at a better volume this time. Good. Russia 'rewarded' him by only spanking once. Syrok repeated himself, and Russia patted Syrok's head and rewarded him with a positive-sounding hum… before spanking him again and causing Syrok to burst out fresh in sobs.

Russia hummed again as Syrok started to lose himself in the desperate cries of Hitler's name and the pain of Russia's swift punishment: Syrok started to kick, try to buck away (but Russia was too strong for that), covered his head desperately, and…

Oh, and there was the erection.

One of the things that amused Russia the most about humans and their very limited concept of sexuality was the idea of a man having an erection being proof that the man was enjoying what was going on. This had been the belief for centuries, since _of course_ men couldn't get raped and were always in control of sex!

Being a male-bodied nation had taught Russia over and over again that this was certainly not the case (he'd been raped more times than he usually liked to remember, had paid the favor back when he could… erections all around a lot of the time), and knew that an aroused state could come from many things that weren't arousal at all: pain, fear, adrenaline. It was just a fact of (immortal) life.

The humans didn't know that, though. Once he felt Syrok's hardening cock brush against his lap, he paused in his spanking.

"H-H-Heil Hitler!" Syrok desperately gasped again, his pained voice pitched as high as a girl's.

Russia made a questioning noise in his throat, before flipping Syrok off his lap, exposing his hard cock both to Russia and Pomedorchik.

Pomedorchik _recoiled_ , and Syrok covered his face in utter and abject shame. Russia hummed and absently flicked Syrok's flushed cockhead.

He looked up at Pomedorchik. This little transition was going to make the final bits of this _much_ easier. "Lie down," Russia ordered Pomedorchik, pushing him onto his back to show what he meant. Pomedorchik went prostrate and did not move. "Spread your legs," Russia ordered, and parted them.

Pomedorchik covered his own flushed face. Russia smacked Syrok's hands away from his face and forced him up onto hands and knees between Pomedorchik's spread legs.

"Put his cock in your mouth," Russia ordered, pushing Syrok's head down. Russia usually didn't have to translate this part: it was pretty obvious.

" _No, no!_ " Syrok sobbed, mere inches away from his friend's genitals. Russia let out a pained sigh and picked up the revolver - it had been at his side the entire time - cocked it, and pointed it at Pomedorchik's head. Syrok moaned, scrunched his eyes closed, opened his mouth, and sucked in Pomedorchik's cock.

Pomedorchik's eyes _flew_ open and he _jerked_ himself out of Syrok's mouth.

That wouldn't do. Russia made a displeased noise and grabbed one of Pomedorchik's legs, lifting him part of the way off the ground. His tortured ass received five more brutal slaps before Russia dropped him. Now, Pomedorchik was sobbing again, but did not move when Syrok took Pomedorchik's penis into his mouth once more.

Syrok's mouth was awkwardly working around Pomedorchik's cock when Russia reached down and started palming Syrok's own erection, making Syrok's hips buck in surprise. Pomedorchik's face was starting to flush as red as his ass and it was clear his blood was starting to flow at the warm wetness of Syroke's velvet cheeks and tongue.

Oh, so very pretty. Russia stroked Syrok's cock once more, taking care to keep it hard. Within a few short minutes, Syrok's hips were thrusting down into Russia's large, gloved hand and Pomedorchik's hips were thrusting _up_ into Syrok's wet, warm mouth despite their mutual crying.

The joy of youth. Soon, Russia reached forward and tugged Syrok's mouth away from Pomedorchik, causing Pomedorchik's hips to thrust up into the air and a strangled moan to erupt from his throat.

Russia hummed and leaned back slightly, parting his greatcoat. It didn't take long before he pulled his own cock out - already hard, obviously - and motioned the two boys over. With soft crying noises, they obeyed, completely defeated, humiliated, and crawling.

Perfect. Russia halted the pair of them, and then stuck out his tongue, motioning for the two to do the same. After a hesitant moment, both obeyed. Russia pointed to his cock and nodded.

While Russia certainly did want some good stimulation, here, he wasn't about to put his cock into the mouth of an unfriendly. It was true that both of these youngsters didn't seem like they would have the guts at this point to try and bite, it wasn't worth the risk and even pumping a miscreant full of hot lead wouldn't fix the pain of a severed cock.

Basically, tongues were fine, and Russia allowed his eyelids to flutter closed with a pleased noise as two of them reluctantly ran up and down his shaft. After a moment, Russia reached forward and tugged his foreskin down to enjoy it more.

As usual, the pair weren't being particularly adventurous, merely licking up-and-down up-and-down like they were wielding a paintbrush to a fence, so Russia reached forward and grabbed a handful of both's hair, gently manipulating their heads into patterns. When he released them, Syrok continued to move his head in varied patterns, but Pomedorchik returned to an up-and-down motion until Russia gave his ass a good slap. That sorted him out immediately.

Once the pair were set to work, Russia leaned back against the tree behind him so he could reach out and take both of their cocks in hand, gently teasing and manipulating the foreskins, toying with their balls, pressing gloved fingers against their periniums, tugging lightly at golden tufts of pubic hair. Once his fingers were wet with their precome, he reached up and teased their tight assholes, but did not penetrate.

Both were rock hard at this point, and Syrok in particular was flushed and thrusting down. Interesting. Well, it wouldn't be out of the realm of possibility for the boy to have inclinations toward men, of course. It really wasn't that unusual, despite how the humans liked to pretend otherwise.

Russia sighed and watched the pair for a little longer, teasing their slits with his finger before running said finger down the throbbing vein both had on their undersides. Both were leaking precome - so was he himself, of course. Russia took a bit to admire their mutually hard cocks, pale skin, tear-stained and -puffed faces, swollen lips, pink tongues, and cherry-red asses.

How very nice. Russia actually did know of a couple of camp commanders that had, well, illicit leanings, actually. Russia thought that Syrok could be of interest to one or two of them as a prize, and it actually might help Syrok survive imprisonment. He was certainly quite pretty, and would be even moreso were he fed correctly. He would be a good whore if marginally willing.

Something to think about later.

For now, though, he started redoubling his efforts on the boys' cocks; to his surprise, it was Pomedorchik that shot first, dirtying the ground with his seed and releasing a low _groan_ \- at the sound of his comrade's release, Syrok finished as well.

When both were through with their orgasms, Russia let himself sigh, shudder, and erupt like a geyser between the boys. They continued their tongue-ablutions until he was soft, which was appreciated and meant he didn't have to spank them more.

Russia reached forward and gently tugged them away once he'd gotten too oversensitive for the stimuli. He smiled at them both. "Very good," he intoned in Russian.

He was met with two silent, glossy expressions. Not unusual. Russia hummed, his hand still on his revolver, and stood, walking over to gather up the boys' clothes.

He helped dress Pomedorchik first, sliding him into his underwear and trousers, followed by socks and carefully lacing up the other's boots. He released the belt holding up Pomedorchik's upper kit, and resituated it. When he was finished, he let Pomedorchik lean against the nearest tree, silent and dazed as Russia did the same thing to Syrok.

When Syrok was fully dressed, though, he leaned into Russia, burying his tearstained face into Russia's chest.

…surprising. Well. Russia looked down at him curiously for a moment, before reaching forward and patting Syrok's gold-blond head. Syrok sobbed, but it was a quiet, empty noise more than anything else. Defeated. Resigned.

Russia hummed low. "Walk," he ordered, grabbing Pomedorchik and Syrok by their shoulders and leading them back through the forest. The two were able to walk, but painfully. The walk was utterly silent.

When they emerged from the forest, the sky was getting dark; the noises from the village were somewhat quieter. The lines of prisoners were still standing, though they would likely be ordered to lie down and sleep, soon. Russia walked the pair back to the place where he'd taken them from; their places in line were still there. Russia felt the peripheral glances of the hundreds of men, but ignored them. Pomedorchik and Syrok were looking at their feet.

The guard from earlier was still there, and Russia handed him Pomedorchik. "Put him back in line," Russia ordered, and the soldier reached forward to cut Pomedorchik's bonds and replace him.

With one hand still on Syrok's biceps, Russia kept walking him forward. Syrok took a sharp breath and turned his head to see Pomedorchik being ordered back in line; this was probably the last time they'd ever see each other.

Russia took Syrok past the line of prisoners and peeked in one of the squad tents. Ah, perfect.

One of the Russian captains was in there, peering at a map. Seeing Russia, he stood straight and saluted; seeing Syrok, he raised an eyebrow.

"Comrade, I've brought you a present," Russia said, giving Syrok a little shove forward. "I suggest you kit him up and keep him with you."

The captain blinked mildly, and looked over at the red-faced, trembling boy. "Does he speak Russian?"

Russia shook his head. "He seems like he would learn quickly, though. Trust me; it would be a shame to let him go to waste."

"Hm," the captain said, looking the boy up and down. "Well, I could always use a new… assistant. I could give him a trial run."

Russia nodded, and turned Syrok around to look down into his terrified blue eyes. He switched to German. " _If you want to survive the next ten years, I suggest you pleasure this man_."

Syrok's eyes nearly bugged out of his head. " _You… you speak German?_ "

Russia gave a half-smile. " _Your language is far less complex than mine_ ," he informed the other, turning and exiting the tent before Syrok could get out another word.

Outside, Russia looked at the stars. Berlin, soon.

Soon, it would all be over.

Soon, it would all be one.

# # #

HISTORICAL NOTES:

FASCISTS: Russians call Nazis 'Fascists.' While in English the 'Fascists' are typically the Italians, in Russian lexicon there's no difference between the two. However, when Russians say 'Fascists' they mean Nazis unless they are specific about the Italians.

"Pomedorchik" and "Syrok": These are diminutive Russian terms for "tomato" (pomedor) and "cheese" (sear). Diminutives are used very often in Russian to imply that something is cute/desirable/delicious/perfect. Basically, Russia is calling the one soldier "an adorable little tomato" and the other one "an adorable little piece of cheese," implying that he finds them very cute and something that he wants to consume. (Obviously, he is also dehumanizing and belittling them as he's denying them human names. Diminutives can also be 'too familiar' and insulting.) It's sort of like how the Japanese often attach "-chan" or "-kun" to the end of names to indicate familiarity and fondness, only in Russian you can do it with all nouns.

"Gitler": Russian has a strange relationship with the letter "h." The closest letter to "h" in the Cyrillic alphabet is actually 'x,' but this sound isn't always used to transliterate the letter 'h' in other languages. Particularly with German words, the 'h' tends to be turned into a 'g.' So "Hitler" is called "Gitler" by the Russians. This isn't meant to be derogatory and Russians know that "Hitler" is not pronounced with a G in German. It's like how "Germany" is called "Deutschland" in German and most English-speakers know this, we still call it "Germany" in English.

ERECTIONS UNDER STRESS: Men can (and do) get erections in rape situations, even in violent, painful ones where no consent was ever given at any part of it. One of the most enduring myths surrounding male rape is that if the man has an erection, he's consenting to what's going on. This isn't true, and in fact contributes to extremely underreported male rape numbers since men who maintain an erection or ejaculate during rape will often encounter people who refuse to believe that rape can come with male orgasm.

Basically, 'Syrok' getting an erection while being punished doesn't actually mean he's a homosexual or in any way liked what was happening to him. What 'Syrok' very inadvertently did correctly, however, was talk to Russia. Psychologists say that if a victim cannot get away from a rapist, the best thing to do is to talk to the assailant, as this subconsciously humanizes the victim in the assaliant's mind. This is why, at the end, Russia ends up giving preferential treatment to 'Syrok.' (And by 'preferential' it was 'making him into a concubine,' but in Russia's head it was a favor as he would undoubtedly be treated better as a Red Army officer's companion rather than a run-of-the-mill POW.)

THE WAR IN THE EAST: The Eastern Front in Europe (USSR vs. Nazi Germany) is very likely in the running for the most brutal war humanity has fought. Millions of men were committed into what the Germans called Operation Barbarossa, or basically Germany's attempt to take over Russia. While the war in the West was no picnic for anybody either, there were several factors that made the Eastern Front particularly bloody and bitter:

Nazi racial policies. According to Nazis, the Slavs (Russians, Ukrainians, Latvians, Poles, etc) were subhuman. In fact, Nazis thought of them on the same level as the Jews, just that the Jews were smarter and thus more of a threat. Therefore, while Western prisoners of war were regarded of as Nordic/Germanic (like the British, French, and white Americans) and thus treated accordingly, the Slavs were treated like the Jews. And the Jews, as any reader should know, were not well-treated at all.

There was an additional component at work: Nazi Germany wanted to depopulate the East of Slavs and then repopulate it with Germans. This policy was called 'Lebensraum,' or 'living space.' Essentially, Nazi Germany wanted more space for Aryan Germans to live in, and thus they sought to kill or otherwise expel the native Slavic population in order to do this. This policy also contributed to extremely high levels of rape from German soldiers upon Slavic women, in hopes that they would conceive and have a 'Germanic' child that could then be raised by Germans.

The Geneva Convention. The US, France, Britain, and Germany were all signatories of the 1929 Geneva Convention. Basically, this is a treaty that governs how POWs must be treated upon surrender. In general, the Western Allies treated German POWs well, and vice-versa. (In general. There were still plenty of instances where prisoners were treated poorly.) However, the Soviet Union was NOT a signatory of the Geneva Convention, and thus by the 'rules of war' could be treated however the Germans saw fit. The Germans were supposed to abide by the rules of the conventions anyhow, but did not. Both sides were very well aware that being sent to a POW camp was basically a death sentence, which caused many men on the Eastern front fight on to the bitter end even when they may have surrendered otherwise.

Particularly at the beginning of the Eastern war, Nazi Germany amassed literally _millions_ of Soviet POWs. While the Red Army was desperately lacking in munitions at the beginning, it wasn't lacking in men, so it was literally throwing millions and millions of ill-equipped men at the Nazis. Many of these men the Nazis kept basically in giant enclosed yards made out of barbed wire and guard posts with no shelters and deliberately starved them to death, even though there was food available. Many Soviet POWs were sent to concentration camps and gassed. There was no access to medical care; oftentimes sick Soviet soldiers were simply shot. The Nazis refused offers from the Red Cross to come and help.

The occupation/retreat from Russia. In the places the Germans captured, large numbers of women and children were shot due to their 'subhuman' status. Two million civilians died of starvation alone. When Operation Barbarossa proved a failure and Hitler was forced to allow his soldiers to retreat, they engaged in a 'scorched earth' policy, literally destroying everything they came across. More civilians were massacred and villages/towns were destroyed.

Obviously, when the Red Army came upon these scenes of violence while chasing the Wehrmacht out of Russia and back toward the German homeland, they became more enraged than they already were. The Red Army, on its march toward Berlin, basically destroyed everything it came across and repaid the favor of mass rape, destruction, and violence on the local populace.

By the end of the war, Russia had lost almost 30 million people, most of them civilians. In contrast, Germany lost between 7-9 million, France 550,000, the UK 450,000, the US 420,000, and Japan 2.5-3 million.

So, yes, at this point in the war (right before the Battle of Berlin), Russia is very angry.

If you want to be utterly disgusted, the total death count for the entirety of WWII is estimated to be between 60 million and 85 million worldwide.

Next part will have Prussia in it. It's just that this one got too long to include both parts of it.


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: This is where there is outright, explicit rape. Not to mention, there are graphic scenes of battle in here. PLEASE do not read if this is not your cup of tea, please. Basically, rape, blackmail, forced bukkake, the whole nine yards here. You have been warned.

# # #

May 2nd, 1945: 4:30 AM

When the moments of silence came in Berlin, it was a breath of air: the birds were starting to chirp (Russia was privately impressed with their bravery; had he wings and no purpose here he probably would have alighted long ago), and the rising sun was painting the bombed-out ruins of what once had been Berlin.

Berlin. The heart from which Fascist Germany's lifeblood had pumped. The capital, the land that should have been renamed Germania and flown its flag red for a thousand years over the world, as their leader had originally promised.

Now the only thing red about the place was the rising sun, the rivers of blood in the street, and the Soviet flag intermittently flying above the building in front of Russia. There was still a fever-pitched battle going on inside, the nation knew; the Soviets would put up the hammer and sickle and then the Fascists would take it down.

One last chirp from the birds before the artillery started up again. It was a terrible rhythm, really, one that Russia wouldn't mind never having to dance to for a few thousand years after this. Despite what everybody else thought, Russia wasn't really a violent person or nation… no, not really. If the Fascists hadn't been stupid enough to attack him, he would have been well-enough content to let them send their own through death camps and lead their own into a battle against the indulgent-and-yet-powerful nations of the West.

But, no. Russia looked up into the ruins of the Reichstag, and today he would ensure that when his flag flew from its decimated dome it would stay. This was no ordinary war. This was a war for the survival of Russia's people and Russia wasn't just going to win: he was going to stab his flag _straight_ into the feebly beating heart of that which had dared challenge him in such a shameless way.

Russia's lip ticked up, and at the next volley of artillery fire he used it as cover and entered the building.

…the entire inside was an absolute burned-out-wreck; the scents of hot metal, charred flesh, sweat, damp wood and old iron assaulted Russia's nostrils. Bits of ceiling flaked away as men ran overhead, Fascists and Soviets chasing each other in the world's oldest and most deadly game of tag.

Suddenly, a rush of gunfire roared so close to Russia's head that he could feel the tip of his ear being singed. Unperturbed, he stepped into a crumbling doorway for cover, pulled a pin from a grenade, and easily tossed it in the direction the fire came from. Three seconds later, an explosion met with a cry of agony.

Idiot.

"You do know that this building hasn't been used for anything in _years_ , right?" a familiar, nasal-accented German voice asked from behind him, sounding hopelessly bored.

Russia hummed, not turning around too soon. "Yes, and quite convenient for your master, as well," he responded right back in Russian, knowing the other understood it perfectly. "I hear it helped him convince the rest of you sheep to follow him down the road to hell." Russia turned his head slowly, giving the other a half-smile.

Bored red-eyes greeted him. Really, Prussia did look the part of a Fascist very well; dressed in the field gray of the Waffen-SS he cut an imposing figure with blood-colored eyes and white-colored hair. He already looked like something out of a nightmare in battle fatigues; Russia imagined that he would have put the fear of God into others in the black dress uniform. At the moment, however, it was clear that Prussia wasn't doing so well: his cheeks were sunken, and a line of blood coming out of the corner of his mouth stood sharp against the snow-albino white of his skin. A purple bruise marred his throat, as if invisible hands were slowly strangling him.

With Russia here, those hands weren't so invisible any longer.

"It was burned in 1933 by a Communist," Prussia replied shortly. "You're sacrificing thousands of men to stick a flag on a _relic_."

An explosion rocked through the upper floors, causing the building to wobble slightly and lead paint to flutter through the air like snowflakes. "Surely you appreciate the value of symbolism, Comrade," Russia replied, casually shrugging his Kalishnikov down from his shoulder. "You seemed to when you were desperately trying to capture a little place called _Stalin_ grad."

The only response Prussia gave was to suddenly lift his pistol and shoot - directly over Russia's left shoulder. There was a sound of agony behind Russia and he could _feel_ the life of one of his own being snuffed like a candle.

Prussia lowered the gun, his thin lips curling up in a half-smile as he wiped the streak of blood away from his mouth with a gloved hand. "He was aiming to interrupt our conversation, and since it's so pleasant I would have abhorred the intrusion."

"Hm," Russia replied, the smell of his dead soldier's hot blood briefly overtaking the acrid presence of ash and iron for a moment. "Yes, it is quite pleasant to make your acquaintance after such a long parting."

This brought a dry cackle from Prussia's throat before both of them had to _brace_ against the walls as the building shook; men screamed in Russian and German both as the floor to Russia's left buckled. His men must be advancing on the infirmary in the basement.

"Going after the wounded, I see," Prussia continued drolly. "The honor of the Soviet soldier untarnished as always."

If Russia had been one of the other allies - high-strung England, aggrandizing America, dramatic France - he very well might have flown off the handle at such a remark, but Russia merely smirked. Casually, he lifted one powerful, booted leg and _smashed_ his heel down into the buckled floor next to him. The rotted wood gave way, and as a hole appeared, confused, alarmed German came from it.

Still keeping eye contact with Prussia, Russia grabbed another grenade, and pulled the pin with his teeth.

"Do not speak to me of honor, Fascist scum," Russia said, the grenade pin falling from his lips to ominously _ping_ across the floor. "You lost yours long ago."

He released the grenade; it fell through the hole in the floor.

The explosion caused the ground to _rock_ beneath them, and fortunately, Russia was standing on a steel joist, as part of the floor exploded and collapsed. The splinters rained down on a group of ten SS men, most of whom were missing limbs and dead from the explosion. The walls had been splattered with blood, bone, and carnage; a single man remained alive, missing his entire right leg with part of his face scorched off. He moaned through broken teeth.

Through this, Russia's eyes kept riveted on Prussia; at the explosion and the violent death of his soldiers, Prussia had collapsed down onto his knees, gripping his chest, his eyes pinched shut. When his mouth opened to gasp for air, blood dripped from his mouth and he breathed unevenly before swallowing hard. The maimed soldier moaned on, his utterances a low, tolling, terrible bell as gunfire and artillery kept the beat of war.

Those Prussian-red eyes lanced up at Russia with pure hatred for a moment before he groped for his pistol, aimed through the hole in the floor, and shot the moaning soldier dead in a mercy stroke. The moaning abruptly stopped, and Prussia wiped his mouth.

Another bubble of quiet emerged, other than mixed shouts in both Russian and German on the higher levels: no gunfire for the moment.

"I have… no desire… to speak… of anything with you," Prussia said, and did not even try to raise himself up off the floor when Russia approached.

Russia's booted feet stopped just inches from Prussia's body before he took out his own pistol and pressed it lightly against Prussia's head. Oh, sure, if Russia shot him Prussia would just come right _back_ , but being shot in the head was very unpleasant even if one was immortal. Russia would know.

"Where is your master?" Russia asked, voice deceptively low.

Prussia snorted, looking up at Russia with that bored-out-of-his-skull expression again. "I don't have one, Slav."

Russia tisked. "Considering a good amount of your populace goes around calling Hitler their Lord, I would disagree." The gun pressed harder against Prussia's forehead, a warning.

Prussia's lips pinched together. "Hitler is dead, moron. You think he was going to stick around for _this_ and surrender to _you_? Obviously you don't listen to the radio."

This was the first thing out of Prussia's mouth that caused Russia to _frown_. "Coward," he managed, because _that_ was cowardly. "I don't envy who he left his Reich to, though."

Prussia snorted. "Doenitz is one of the saner ones, I will give him that."

Russia's brow wrinkled. " _Doenitz_ is the new Fuehrer?" Oh, now _that_ was unpleasant. Russia didn't have much of an opinion on Doenitz, in reality, considering how the human was in charge of the kriegsmarine and Russia wasn't involved with battles at sea.

That was exactly the problem. It would have been _much_ more satisfying _at least_ getting his hands on Goebbles or Himmler or somebody appropriately despicable.

Prussia cackled again. "Fuehrer? Hardly. Herr Hitler wasn't about to pass _that_ on. Both Goering and Himmler were discredited for trying to come to peace with the Allies… Hitler defrocked them and made Doenitz president."

"I never heard anything about any peace talks," Russia said immediately.

Prussia gave him a flat look. "Peace talks with the Allies _that aren't you_. I believe that Himmler was trying to convince England and America to join up with him to take _you_ on. You may have noticed that everybody seems to be heading West, _away_ from you and _toward_ the Westerners." Prussia raised an eyebrow over the gun pointed at his forehead. "Wonder why that is?"

Russia lowered the gun, though he didn't move away from Prussia. The other's words did not affect him: one did not go to war in order to be liked, particularly by Fascists. "So why continue to fight, then?" Russia asked. "Surrender, if that's all you're interested in doing. You will not succeed."

Prussia looked at him, and the room was eerily silent for a moment before the artillery shouted up again and the air filled once more with the sound of battle, the sound of men fighting to the bitter, bitter end.

"This isn't about _winning_ , Ruski," Prussia said, raising his hand once more to wipe a stream of blood from his mouth, his red eyes still boring into Russia's despite being on the ground before him. "It's about losing to the right people. If the war is over, my armies can't move and my people are trapped."

Russia raised a mild eyebrow. "So your men are fighting to the death in order for your _other_ men to flee like bedwetting children into the loving arms of the Anglos."

"Some still believe in the cause," Prussia replied shortly, the rest unspoken.

Russia let that roll around in his head for a moment before the obvious hit him between the eyes. "So, then," he said, "where's your little brother, hm?"

Prussia's eyebrow twitched slightly. "I haven't the faintest idea," he replied, though Russia noticed his eyes grow wary.

"He's one of the bedwetters, then, isn't he?" Russia asked, tipping his head, his mouth bending in a small smile. "He's running for a gentle touch, running scared… and you, gallant hero you are, are stalling the big bad Red Army for him."

"I'm no hero and both of us know it," Prussia replied, rolling his eyes. "Not all of us are children like America. There's no such thing as a hero."

Well, while Russia certainly agreed that dealing with America was much akin to dealing with a sugar-addled brat who needed a good thrashing, he was well acquainted enough with Prussia to realize the other wasn't as calm as he seemed. This all made sense, now: one of Prussia's only true weak spots was his brother, and Prussia was clearly trying to keep his brother out of Soviet hands.

Well, this could be fun.

"But if there _were_ a hero, you are certainly your brother's, hm?" Russia asked, crossing his arms, allowing his amusement to show through. "It's a shame for me, though… I've become quite partial to your handsome, strong, blond-haired blue-eyed soldiers. Have I told you what I do to them?"

Prussia, to his credit, said nothing and did not rise to the bait other than to narrow his eyes and level Russia with a very effective death glare. An explosion went off somewhere else in the building, but it was far enough away only to cause a tremor to go through the floor.

Russia leaned in a little. "I separate them from their comrades, tie them up, take them into the woods, strip them… and punish them like the little children they are. A belt first, then my hand… then I make them pleasure each other and pleasure me, once they cry and beg like little infants. Some of them wet themselves. Some of them cry for their mothers. All of them break. Such beautiful tears from bright blue eyes, pure blond hair stuck to their foreheads with sweat, pubic hair damp with semen and urine… broken with shame, knowing that it isn't even punishment fit for a soldier, but a spoiled child."

Prussia's mouth drew as he leaned back slightly. "That is disgusting," he said, voice considerably tighter than before.

Russia nodded. "Yes, and so is forcing soldiers to dig their own graves before shooting them in it, so you have your ways of amusing yourself, and so do I." He smiled again. "Your brother would fit my desired profile for such treatment very well. Perhaps I can make friends with England, France, America; they may be interested in giving me a loan, yes? Maybe you could watch."

Oh, now Russia was getting to him. Prussia's eyes _flashed_ dangerously. "The only nation in the world they hate more than myself and West is _you_ ," Prussia replied lowly. "Like hell they'd hand him over."

"You hope," Russia said cheerfully. "But, since I am sure that they all hate Japan more, particularly my little America, who seems to have a lot of sway… I could very well go help him in the Orient after we mop up the filth in Germany, you know. Help him with the nation that stabbed him in the back… he might be amenable to a few small favors."

Prussia's nostrils _flared_.

Oh, so very close. "Maybe after I was done with your little brother, I would have you rape him," Russia said, as if he were contemplating what to have for dinner. "I'd chain him on his belly, and you would push in raw, no lubricant, and he would be _so tight_ … oh, he's been raped before, I know, but not by his dear older brother whom he _loves so much_ , the older brother who thrusts in and out of him, tearing him, causing him to cry blood from his anus as he cries tears from his eyes…" Here, Russia switched to high-pitched, plaintive German for effect: " _Oh, Brother, Brother, please stop, I can't… oh, Brother, it hurts…!_ "

Prussia's face, by this point, was nearly as red as his eyes were. Truly, with the Fascist uniform on, he did look like a thing that had crawled from hell. At the mockery of German, Prussia lurched to his feat and _grabbed_ the lapels of Russia's greatcoat, tugging the taller nation down until he could glare daggers into Russia's eyes.

"Do. Not. Speak," Prussia ground out, the anger in his voice hotter than a tank muzzle in Kursk. "I am _not_ an idiot, I know I am yours and there is nothing I can do about it. But you do not, and _will not_ have _him_ , so this is pure, pure fantasy."

Russia was amused. The next few decades were clearly going to be entertaining. "Again, as you hope," Russia reminded him. "You have no idea what the other Allies will find in their best interest. Your brother very well could be a bargaining chip in the future, particularly if the others tire of him or if I simply want… a temporary loan. They didn't seem to have any qualms handing over Czechoslovakia to _you_ at any rate… before you got too greedy… I'm not sure how your brother will get any better consideration."

Prussia's glare was pure hate, pure and simple.

Oh, perfect.

Russia smiled. "Of course, if I am _amused_ enough by your presence alone, perhaps I shan't need extra entertainment," he said loftily. "I don't _have_ to request it after all."

Prussia's look shifted to deadpan. "Is this your opening to the rape, then?"

"Not yet," Russia said. "We have time yet." The sun was starting to rise higher in the sky, painting the room a soft shade of yellow. The fighting went on. "You could start with your mouth, though." Russia pointed to the floor, indicating where Prussia should kneel.

Prussia's mouth twisted. "I have no guarantee you won't go after West if I do that… and you know as well as I do that oral isn't a part of takeover sex." Generally, the victor would be far more cautious.

Russia chuckled, and patted Prussia's head; Prussia jerked away. "But I'll _certainly_ put him in my sights if you don't," he said with a shrug. "And if you bite me, well… things won't be pleasant for you, and when I get my hands on him I'll ensure they aren't pleasant for your adorable baby brother. He's younger than even America, isn't he? He'll break much easier than _you_. And there would be absolutely _nothing_ you could do about it."

Prussia exhaled through his nose slowly. "Russian swine," he said, voice low, his grip still knuckle-crunching tight on Russia's lapels… before slowly releasing his fingers and sliding down onto his knees.

Russia chuckled and spread his legs, crossing his hands, watching as Prussia fumbled through Russia's unfamiliar uniform, unbuttoning the bottom of the greatcoat, figuring out how the trousers attached to the shirt, and then working his way through Russia's underlayers, angrily seeking his cock.

Russia smiled at the disgusted face Prussia made when finally Russia's cock was free: Russia hadn't bathed in, oh, about fifteen days now and the smell was probably far less than pleasant.

Nevertheless, after a deep breath through his mouth, Prussia leaned forward and engulfed Russia's cock in his mouth, his wiry hand wrapping around the base before starting to bob.

Russia threw back his head and _sighed_ \- it had been a while since he had gotten a decent session of oral… the trembling tongues of beaten Wehrmacht boys not completely comparing to the real deal. Aside from the pure pleasure of friction, though, there was the additional thrill of this being a soon-to-be _defeated nation_ , one that _Russia had defeated and would now own_ , wearing an SS uniform to boot.

Oh, so pleasant. Russia hummed and put a hand on the back of Prussia's head, starting to pump his powerful hips into Prussia's mouth: Prussia gagged. Pleasure raced up Russia's spine, as light as a Yak in the air. When he started to leak, he took a minute to half-tug his cock out of Prussia's mouth and line his lips with semen before shoving back in.

A few moments into this, Russia heard a noise coming from the door, and - oh.

Standing there were five of his men, looking curiously at the scene before them. In general, Russia's people were quite against homosexuality on the whole, but the battlefield had a way of turning the world upside down and most anything went in it. Additionally, Russia's people were quite superstitious, despite everybody theoretically being atheists… but there were gold-domed churches for a reason and some deep part of his people recognized that Russia had something of an otherworldly ambiance about him.

In other words, like most things Russia knew, the laws only applied when they applied. The rest of the time they didn't.

By this point, Prussia had noticed the show and tried to pull away; Russia didn't let him, holding the other nation on his cock, digging his nails slightly into Prussia's scalp as a warning not to move. Prussia did not move.

Russia gave the men a smile and beckoned them in. "Would you care to take a break?" he asked lightly, humor in his tone.

Prussia, held still on Russia's cock, flicked his eyes up.

The men laughed and filtered into the room, carefully walking around the collapsed part of the floor offering a view of the gore below, and fanning around Prussia in a circle, all of them starting to undo their kits at the same time.

While some countries might have had their people wait in a line for their turn, so to speak, Russia wasn't much into the idea of wasting time and neither were his people. Shortly, Prussia was presented with five additional human cocks, and Russia released Prussia's head. Prussia pulled off, wiping his mouth, and turning his head at the scene. His eyes went back to Russia.

"You have _got_ to be kidding me," Prussia said, voice still droll despite what he was obviously expected to be doing. Ah, Russia loved the old nations. Nothing surprised them.

"Maybe your brother would like doing it more?" Russia replied, in German so that the men wouldn't understand. "I could certainly imagine _his_ reaction to being surrounded by human cocks and told to suck them like a whore. I imagine he's very soft under that cool exterior, hm?"

Prussia's eyes flashed up for a moment before turning his head toward the first human's cock, and pulling it into his mouth, eyes sliding closed before bobbing up and down, up and down along the mortal length.

Russia watched this with amusement, running fingers along his cock to keep himself hard at the scene, though he probably didn't need the encouragement. The first human was moaning shortly - _"When I'm done with you I'll shove it down your sister's throat and up her pussy, you Fascist fuck"_ \- and the second human lost patience and dragged Prussia over by the hair before the first had finished, shoving Prussia down on top of his own cock, pumping away at Prussia's mouth like he was fucking a pillow.

Russia watched this continue - none of the men would let the predecessor come, instead dragging Prussia over by his hair or his uniform to start anew on _their_ cock. Prussia bobbed and bobbed; by the time he got back around to Russia, he had to grasp at Russia's thighs to stay upright and keep sucking.

Russia hummed, brushing back Prussia's hair. "This is your last round," he informed the men, brushing Prussia's hair back in a mockery of fondness. "Do not come in his mouth. Come on him. There are other men waiting for a turn." He nodded to a new group of curious onlookers standing by the door, despite the battle raging fiercely on around them.

The men were accustomed to obeying Russia, of course: when the first man pulled Prussia over to him and shoved his cock in Prussia's slack jaw, he pumped himself a few times before pulling out and shooting Prussia directly between the eyes with his release. As soon as he had finished ejaculating, the second man dragged Prussia over by the hair to finish himself in a similar fashion, only he chose to release himself directly over the Fascist eagle sewn to Prussia's chest.

A new man replaced the first one. A new man replaced the second one. By the time Prussia was dragged back onto Russia's cock again, his face was glossy with wet come and flaky with dried. His eyes were starting to go distant as he sloppily moved over Russia's cock - but Russia shoved him onto the first new soldier before finishing. The first new soldier laughed, grabbed the back of Prussia's head, and shoved himself so far down Prussia's throat that he gagged.

This continued on for three, four more rounds, until when Prussia was dragged before Russia, Prussia simply collapsed into Russia's groin, his hair sticking straight up with Soviet semen and uniform tacky with it, barely breathing.

Russia hummed, and then shoved Prussia on his back, where Prussia did not move. "That's enough," he told the rest of the men. "If you want to finish, finish yourselves on him."

Frankly, if Russia had allowed it, Prussia probably would have ended up serving the entire Red Army, as every passing soldier on the scene had been drawn in. There had been no Fascist solders; Russia assumed they were getting beaten further and further back.

The last round of men stepped close to Prussia and spent themselves on his body; Prussia did not move. A couple of the men who had not been involved in the display stepped forward and masturbated themselves to release anyway; Prussia did not move.

Russia, however, had not finished and was still hard. "Now go," Russia ordered. The men, talking with each other and chuckling, left. Russia stood until he was sure that they were gone, before approaching Prussia's form.

The other nation was breathing, but shallowly. When Russia's shadow fell over him - the sun had risen a while ago, now, and filled the room with gold as much as it was also full of blood, sweat, and semen - Prussia's eyes opened, his expression a chisel in stone.

Russia clapped, the sound oddly cheerful. "That was very good," Russia praised.

"Fuck you," Prussia managed, his voice broken and hoarse; no doubt, his throat was killing him.

Russia chuckled and crouched, reaching into his greatcoat and pulling out the brown glass water canteen he kept on him. Carefully, he slid one gloved hand behind Prussia's skull - the hair was matted with semen - and tipped his head up a bit before tugging the cork from the bottle with his teeth and putting the mouth of it up against Prussia's lips.

Prussia guzzled it dry, his throat working with a desperation not seen on his face. When he was done, Russia replaced the empty canteen in his sack and put one hand under Prussia's knees, the other behind his back, and picked him up princess-style.

On one hand, walking like this was a bit of a risk since it left Russia unarmed, but Russia was aware that the farther up he walked in the Reichstag, the more Soviet soldiers there would be. The Germans were holed up in the basement at this point. There couldn't have been a few more hours left in this bloody battle - Russia could feel it. Victory was nigh. He climbed stairs and stairs before emerging on the roof.

The rubble of Berlin spread out around him, scorched, violated, bare, a shadow of its former self. Dust and smoke rose from the buildings where fires still smoldered, and the burnt out remains of trolley cars and automobiles lay like skeletons in the dust. Bodies of all uniforms lay in the streets next to civilians, and tanks were strewn about the place.

If ever there was a hell, Russia thought, this must be it.

"Hitler said once that in ten years, we wouldn't recognize Berlin," Prussia said in a low croak, surprising Russia into looking down at the other. Prussia's eyes were gazing listlessly over the scene, his eyelids sticking together with dried semen. After a moment, he looked up at Russia. "It was the only promise he ever kept."

Russia paused, and favored Prussia with a small, genuine smile. "Your brother is as good at losing wars as you used to be at winning them," Russia remarked. "But you must love him very much." He started to carefully pick his way across the Reichstag's ruined roof, making his way to the peak at the front of the building with the six proud pillars, now crumbling and overgrown, dying with both neglect and abuse; the pillars supporting the overhang with the phrase _Dem deutschen Volke_ inscribed on it. Russia put Prussia down on this slope, careful to find a spot with more-or-less solid ground.

Prussia didn't say anything until he was laying on his back before Russia, and didn't look away when Russia started to undo his kit, shoving his pants and trousers down to his knees. "You wouldn't know the first thing about love," Prussia said, "If you think it has anything to do with winning wars."

Russia laughed and roughly flipped Prussia over onto his front, pinning him down and spreading his legs. "As you say," he purred into Prussia's ear, not willing to address it at the moment. "However, you _could_ say I am an expert in what love _isn't_."

At this, Russia thrust down into impossibly, excruciatingly hot and tense and hateful tightness, like a _fist_ had clamped around his cock, so tight it was literally painful, too much, too much-

To the sound of sirens, buildings falling, men dying, grenades exploding, and Prussia screaming, Russia found his completion-

"- _I have made a deal with the Russians for a cease fire order._ "

The announcement came from the streets, moving in such a way that it was obviously being broadcast from a truck that was driving around the broken streets. Still filling Prussia with his spend, Russia froze - even though Prussia was breathing quickly and still in excruciating pain, it was clear his attention was caught as well.

" _Put down your weapons, and surrender. The battle for Berlin is lost_."

Russia heard his heartbeat in his ears. When the aftershocks had faded, he pulled out from Prussia's body slowly, dragging blood and semen with him - Prussia gasped and shuddered with pain. It was unlikely he would be able to walk for a while.

Russia didn't bother pulling either Prussia's trousers up or his own. Everything was over so quickly. Berlin had snapped back into stunned silence. He heard a chirp and looked over - a yellow bird was bouncing around on the destroyed roof of the Reichstag, close to Prussia, cocking its head at the pair of nations curiously.

At the sound of birdsong, Prussia's throat worked, and Russia saw the wetness of tears starting to make their way down Prussia's face, a slow ooze to match the one coming from his vital regions.

Russia didn't say anything. He was familiar enough with this process - defeat, rape, helplessness - to know that anything he did at the moment would be unhelpful. He looked out over the streets of the ruined city, seeing some brave civilians carefully creeping around the rubble.

It wasn't true what Prussia said. Russia knew very well what love was. As the nation beside him sobbed, Russia kept quiet and did not touch him.

Of course, this bombed out city full of dead men and broken buildings wasn't love. The nation sobbing openly next to him on the roof of what he'd used to be wasn't love. Bombs weren't love, rape wasn't love, pain wasn't love, crematoriums and tanks and starvation and flamethrowers and shitty rations and homesickness and cold and disease weren't love. Winning wars, losing wars, being in a war… none of that was love.

But the fact that this was finally, finally over… was.

# # #

HISTORICAL NOTES

BATTLE OF BERLIN: This battle is one of the bloodiest in recorded history in terms of death tolls. Basically, it involved door-to-door room-to-room fighting between German and Russian soldiers. Both sides fought ferociously, as the Germans knew their days were numbered and the Russians wanted both vengeance and to win.

The Reichstag was of particular symbolic interest to the Soviets. They wanted to capture it on May 1st, which is National Workers Day (still a major holiday in Russia), but ended up capturing it on the 2nd. However, as Prussia says, the Reichstag hadn't been used for anything meaningful since it had been burned down in 1933. The German Diet used to meet there, but after the Reichstag was burned down, the Diet basically gave all power over to the Nazis and became irrelevant. It was said that a Communist burned it down, but whether this is actually true or not is suspect. The main rivals to the Nazis in the early 1930s were the Communists, and accusing one of them of burning the Reichstag basically gave the Nazis free reign on suppressing the Communists and thus cemented Hitler's control over Germany. Some say that the Nazis burnt it themselves to give them an excuse to go after the Communists, just like a staged attack on a radio tower gave them an excuse to go after the Poles.

Since the Reichstag had been in ruins for over a decade, there were tons of places for German soldiers to entrench themselves, and fighting was fierce. There was an infirmary in the basement for German soldiers and the Soviets did control the upper floors for most of the battle. Russia dropping a grenade on SS soldiers below is based off an account of Soviet soldiers doing the same thing. The Battle of Berlin ended on May 2nd.

SURRENDER TO THE WEST: The Battle of Berlin started on the 16th of April, after the Soviets had been hustling across Germany in order to beat the Western Allies there. By April of 1945, German soldiers were surrendering in droves to the Westerners, realizing that the war was definitely over at this point and not wanting to be captured by the Soviets. Eisenhower called the Wehrmacht a "whipped army" due to the sheer number of surrenders. At its peak, 50,000 soldiers a day were surrendering to the Americans alone. In fact, the high number of surrenders actually caused a serious problem after the war. Eisenhower had expected that the Western Allies would take roughly 3 million POWs. They ended up taking over 5 million. This lead to logistical problems, food shortages, and primitive "holding camps" where POWs were kept out in the open and ended up eating grass. The Western Allies ended up stripping POWs of their POW status so they could circumnavigate the Geneva Convention. While this was heinous in some ways… the Allies were also dealing with floods of civilians that were fleeing the Red Army in addition to local populations. Had they abided by the Geneva Convention, the soldiers would have been fed while civilians starved. (Of course, this is not to say that some of the ill-treatment wasn't caused by Western resentment against German soldiers. This also played a significant part.)

In reality, there was no 'race to Berlin,' as Western Allied commanders were well-aware that Berlin was going to be a bloodbath. They purposefully left it to the Soviets. Meanwhile, the Americans discovered a giant Nazi gold hoard that they promptly shipped back to Fort Knox and would summarily use to finance the Marshall Plan.

At the end of the war Doenitz stalled surrendering as long as he could (as long as the war was going on, German troops could move freely and legally; once surrender was had they would not be able to do so) in order to get as many soldiers to surrender to the Western powers as possible. His efforts are estimated to have gotten an additional 1.8 million German soldiers into Western custody. Eisenhower was the one who put pressure on Doenitz to surrender, as he was already overwhelmed with the amount of POWs he had on his hands.

POLITICS DURING THE FALL OF THE REICH: Originally Goering (Head of the Luftwaffe) was supposed to take over after Hitler passed away. However, when Hitler decided to stay in Berlin and die, Goering left the city. He sent a telegram asking for permission to take over the Reich now that Hitler was obviously going to be incapacitated. Hitler was furious and stripped Goering of his party membership.

Himmler actually tried to negotiate a separate peace through a third party with Britain and America, suggesting that they band forces with the Germans to defeat the Russians. Even though Britain/America's relations with the Russians weren't 100% friendly, Himmler's name had become associated with the death camps and thus the Western powers were not willing to negotiate. Hitler learned of this and stripped Himmler of his party membership as well.

This left Doenitz, the head of the Kriegsmarine (Navy) with a leadership position, as well as Goebbels, Hitler's director of propaganda with leadership positions. Goebbles was insanely devoted to Hitler and would not surrender… until he committed suicide himself along with his wife after they killed their six children.

"In ten years you won't recognize Berlin": This quote from Prussia was said by a Berlin resident to a Red Army soldier after the battle was over. Watch the documentary "Surrender" if you want a source for it. It's a pretty good doc, as well.


End file.
